The Houdini Escape

by Clifford, Riley

  Cover

  Are You Ready to Save the World?

  Title Page

  Letter

  The Houdini Escape

  The Cahill Files

  Acknowledgments

  Copyright

  New York City, 1891

  It was the final show of the night, and the eyes of every person crammed inside the tent were trained on him. Harry “the King of Cards” Weiss advanced down the aisle, his voice filling the cramped space as he told the story of the four kings. They were brothers whose mother had been forced to send them away at birth, which he illustrated by shuffling the four king cards into the deck.

  As the audience bought into the story, Harry’s voice grew steadier. He might be only a teenager, but he knew that he needed to speak with the confidence and poise of a veteran magician. Harry could feel the excitement build as he wove a tale of each brother going on his own path and becoming king of a distant land.

  As he neared the stage, he brushed against a boy leaning in too close, and with an undetectable motion, Harry slipped the queen of hearts into the boy’s pocket. There was a reason the light in the tent was kept dim.

  Harry reached the stage, turned, and held out the deck in his left hand. “Now, these four kings were separated at birth. But one day, they all traveled back to their home for a reunion.” He stared down at the deck and wrinkled his brow. The audience would expect him to pull the four cards out of the deck, but instead, Harry palmed the cards from a hidden pocket.

  “The king of diamonds, the great merchant, came from the west,” he said as the card appeared in his right hand. He knew that, to the audience, it would look like it had materialized out of thin air. “The king of hearts, the great poet, came from the east. The king of spades, the great architect, came from the north. And the king of clubs, the great warrior, came from the south.”

  The audience applauded, and Harry grinned. Breathing a sigh of relief, he felt like a king in his own right. Every magician used sleight of hand like palming cards, but Harry always worried that someone would catch him, or call him out. Now, the hard part was over. All that was left was the triumphant final reveal, the moment that made everything worth it: the countless hours practicing, the smell of sweat and smoke that filled the tent, the worried expression on his parents’ faces whenever he talked about magic.

  “But what about the poor mother, who was forced to send her sons to the four corners of the earth?” Harry could feel the anticipation growing. Surprising an audience was one thing. Getting them to go along with the story was what gave him a rush. “Yes, their mother, the queen of hearts — she was supposed to be there, too. But where was she?”

  Harry looked around, miming a search. Finally, he peered out into the audience.

  “I can’t seem to find her. You, boy,” he said, pointing at the child he’d identified earlier. “Do you know where the queen is?”

  The boy shook his head mutely.

  “Hm. Maybe you should check your pocket. You never know what might be in there.”

  The boy looked confused, but checked his pocket. Harry grinned. In a moment, the queen of hearts would meet her sons, the reunion would be complete, and Harry would bow out to a standing ovation.

  The boy came up empty, and Harry chuckled. “Maybe your other pocket,” he said with ease.

  The boy stuck his hand into the other jacket pocket. As the bewildered audience member checked his pants, Harry’s stomach tied itself in knots. What had gone wrong? He knew he had dropped the card in the boy’s pocket.

  “It’s there somewhere, ain’t it?” Harry demanded, his practiced performer voice falling away like a piece of cheap scenery.

  The boy began to pat his jacket anxiously, and even searched the ground around his feet.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said, looking up at him with wide eyes. “I don’t have it.”

  The audience began to fidget, and the tent filled with the sound of whispers and a few snickers. Harry’s mind raced, but when he opened his mouth to improvise an excuse, nothing came out. In an instant, the confident showman was gone. Suddenly, the King of Cards was just Harry, the immigrant kid with the funny accent who worked in a tie factory.

  As soon as a few smirking teenagers stood to go, it was over. Within moments, the audience was shuffling out of the tent, muttering about wasting their money on some hack.

  Even before the last audience member had left the tent, it hit him. He had gone for the wrong boy. Harry grimaced. Somehow he had gotten turned around. In the dim light, they all looked the same. It had been the boy on the other side of the aisle.

  He wanted to run outside and yell, to call them back and demand that they see that the trick really had worked. But it was too late. Harry sighed and began shuffling around the stage to pack up. Other magicians had chests, trap doors, and trick mirrors, but he had to make do with the simplest tools: silk handkerchiefs that he could force to change colors, rings that he could separate and connect, and several decks of cards.

  Harry froze as the distinct smell of cigar smoke and cheap whiskey filled his nose. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the tent flap open, and the portly ringmaster stormed inside. Harry faced the back wall and concentrated on refolding his silk handkerchiefs, unwilling to face the ringmaster, Thaddeus. The smell grew stronger and the low stage creaked as the heavy man stepped up.

  “You better have a good explanation for what happened out there,” he said, grabbing Harry by the collar. Harry suppressed a groan. The other seven shows he’d performed that day had gone perfectly. But of course Thaddeus had only seen the one he botched.

  Harry turned around to face him. The man was standing close, his girth practically bursting the buttons on his bright red jacket. “I’m sorry, but —”

  “Quiet,” the ringmaster snapped before taking another puff of his cigar. “I billed you as the King of Cards. My show’s about sparkle, pizzazz . . . ya know, magic. The king of something doesn’t lose track of his card! Three of them had the nerve to ask for refunds! I didn’t give ’em money, but I had Larson give them free hot sausages. All because you can’t find the queen!”

  Harry felt his heart speed up. “It won’t happen again. I promise.” If he lost this job, it could take months to find another magician gig. He’d probably have to take extra shifts at the factory. His family counted on the income from his weekend job — he couldn’t come home empty-handed.

  Thaddeus glared at him. “You made the show look bad, kid. People will talk. I’ll lose ticket sales from this, no doubt about it.”

  Harry’s shoulders tensed as he imagined the look on his parents’ faces when he told them he lost the job. His mother had been endlessly patient when he first started practicing, letting him find her card over and over again, never letting on when she realized his method. His father, on the other hand, had always tried to uncover the secret, which had taught Harry one of the most important rules of magic: never perform the same trick twice in a row. But now it looked like all his hard work would go to waste.

  The ringmaster twirled his mustache and sighed. “I can’t pay a magician who doesn’t do magic. One more mistake and you’re done. And I’ll spread the word to the rest of the town.” He started lumbering toward the front of the tent, but then turned to look over his shoulder. “Unless you double your ticket sales next weekend, you’ll never work Coney Island again.”

  The flap closed, leaving Harry alone with nothing but his flimsy props and empty pockets. He had just enough for the horsecar fare, but nothing to give his mother for the grocer. Weighed down by a heaviness that started in his stomach a
nd extended to his feet, Harry blew out the lamps in the tent and headed out into the Coney Island night.

  Harry trudged along the deserted boardwalk on his way to the horsecar that would take him from Coney Island back to Manhattan. The families were all gone and the lights were off, taking with them any sense of festivity. Now it was just carnies tearing down their tents or trying to entice the loitering teenagers to take one last ride on the Switchback Railway.

  He saw one older man playing Bottle Up, attempting to use a ring on a string to put a bottle upright. Harry shook his head when he noticed the smudge of chalk on the back of the man’s shabby jacket. That meant he was “marked,” a fool who had lost a pile of money at one game — and could likely be suckered into losing more at another booth. The bright lights of Coney Island were the first thing many immigrants saw in New York — the ships passed the boardwalk even before the Statue of Liberty — and the new arrivals would often come soon after leaving Ellis Island, much to the delight of the con men, who knew how to take advantage of them.

  Harry sped up to pass several grim-looking men huddled in an alleyway, exchanging money. He glanced in the opposite direction, pretending to be interested in the barking dogs outside the racetrack. The men were probably selling stolen goods, but it was none of his concern. And everyone knew that Police Chief McKane looked the other way. That is, if he and his captains weren’t actually in on the deal.

  Harry worked for Thaddeus, so no one bothered him. But that hadn’t always been true. The first time he’d tried to perform magic on the street, three burly men had tried to “teach him a lesson” about respecting other people’s “territory.” Luckily, Harry was a track champion at the Pastime Athletic Club, and he easily outdistanced them, but he ran into similar problems until Thaddeus saw him doing his act at a dime museum in Queens and hired him to perform weekends in his show.

  Even after tonight’s disappointment, Harry was still proud to be performing in Coney Island. He might be between the bearded ladies (women with glue and hair) and the unicorn (an unfortunate horse, glue, and the horn of an even more unfortunate narwhal), but he was a showman with a real show.

  His father sometimes talked about the great performers and artists that he was related to as members of the Cahill Family. He even claimed that creative geniuses like Mozart and Lord Byron were among their distant cousins, though it was hard to imagine his serious father, a former rabbi, having anything to do with such colorful figures. Harry longed to take the stage like his ancestors had — but his parents had made it clear that his main obligation was to help support the family.

  Harry wanted to be useful. He knew how much his parents worried about money, especially now that his father was too ill to work. But he wished they believed he could do better as a performer than he could cutting ties. Harry knew lifers at the factory, grizzled men and women who had been doing the same job for decades and making the same pay. They didn’t starve, but they never got ahead, either. They just sat at the same worktable day after day, slowly withering away.

  The wait for the horsecar, a horse-drawn wagon that carried about fifteen people, was brief. Normally he would have been happy to be home sooner, but even with work in the morning, Harry wasn’t eager to face his family. He hung back at the end of the line before reluctantly giving the driver his last pennies and crowding onto the carriage with the carnival tourists and workers returning to Manhattan.

  The horsecar bumped its way through Brooklyn. It was starting to get late, but the streets were still crowded. Omnibuses full of men in hats wove between endless rows of wooden stands where vendors made their final sales pitches, hoping to sell their remaining wares at discount prices before heading home. Grubby children played in the street, dashing between the horses and skirting around the ash barrels that stood overflowing on every corner.

  He changed horsecars, and slumped in the back as the coach bumped over the Brooklyn Bridge. Although the sky was dark, the electric lights in the new buildings allowed Harry to make out the silhouette of the skyline — the skeleton frames of the new skyscrapers looming over the smaller structures.

  Next to him, a group of Chinese workers played a betting game that involved guessing the number of beads in a bowl. Each time someone won, the whole group would erupt in cheers. Harry watched out of the corner of his eye. With his sleight of hand, he knew he could make money at a game like that, but he’d seen what happened to cheaters who were caught in Coney Island. Sleight of hand got a lot harder if your hand was missing a few fingers.

  As they traveled uptown, the streetlights grew farther apart and the city settled into sleep. After another horsecar change and a walk of several blocks, Harry arrived at West 113th Street, where he lived with his parents and five siblings. His stomach rumbled as he walked up the stairs to his family’s town house. He hoped there were leftovers from dinner for him to eat. Without the money from his show, there was no knowing what tomorrow would bring.

  The house was dark, and Harry let himself in as quietly as he could. He’d forgotten his key again, but that was no problem — a few seconds with the pick from his bag of magicians’ tools and the lock was open. Ever since his brief apprenticeship to a locksmith back in Appleton, Wisconsin, Harry had been trying to think of ways to incorporate his skills into his act, but kept coming up short. He couldn’t imagine anything less exciting than someone picking a lock onstage.

  He padded through the hallway, anxious to make sure he didn’t wake his family. But as he crossed the darkened parlor, he stepped on something that crunched like broken glass. Harry shook his head. One of his siblings must have broken something again. He reached toward the sideboard and fumbled for a moment before his hands found the gas lamp and matches.

  As the light filled the room with long shadows and a dim orange glow, Harry’s breath caught in his chest. His family’s keepsakes, which normally stood proudly on the mantel, were all smashed. Portraits, his father’s awards, Harry’s cross-country medals, and even the crystal glasses from his parents’ wedding had been reduced to a pile of fragments and shards. It had not been done recklessly — the only way to cause this type of damage was to crush each piece individually. A terrifying thought planted itself in his mind, and coils of dread tightened around his stomach. What if someone had hurt his family?

  He raised the lamp, revealing deep scratches in the wall above the mantel, slashes that looked like the letter V. Harry stepped back and slipped on a piece of the wreckage, too shocked to even try to find his balance. He sent a chair flying as he fell, and landed with a thump, still clutching the gas lamp.

  As Harry pulled himself to his feet, he could hear his parents stirring in their room. The door opened and his mother appeared. Harry darted forward to stop her from entering, but it was too late. She gasped as she took in the scene, turning around to clutch Harry’s father as he cautiously shuffled into the room.

  “I thought you said they wouldn’t bother us here,” she whispered. “They came into our home.” She brought her hand to her chest. “While we were sleeping.”

  His father’s face was unreadable as he surveyed the scene. “Harry, go to bed.” Since he’d fallen ill, Mayer Samuel’s voice had grown thin, a crushing blow to the former rabbi who’d once transfixed crowded synagogues with his authoritative baritone. “Your mother and I will take care of this.”

  “What h-h-appened? Who . . . ?” Harry stammered.

  When his mother saw the concern on Harry’s face, she forced her mouth into a weak impression of a smile. “Don’t worry. It looks like someone must have broken in. But they’re gone now. We’ll report it to the police in the morning.”

  Harry knew she was lying or at least hiding the truth. He raised an eyebrow at his father, hoping for a better explanation.

  “Mother?” a girl’s voice squeaked from the doorway. Harry’s sister Carrie and brother Leopold were standing there in their nightshirts. />
  “It’s nothing, dear,” his mother said, shepherding them through the door and back to their room.

  “What’s really going on?” Harry asked his father once they were gone.

  His father said nothing and shook his head, lowering himself wearily into his favorite chair.

  Unwilling to leave, Harry bent down and started cleaning up. He salvaged the few pieces that still had some value, and swept the rest of the wreckage into a pile.

  “Thank you, Harry,” his father said, and then fell silent again as Harry swept the debris into a dustpan and emptied it into an old sack.

  “How were your shows?” Mayer Samuel finally asked, as if changing the subject could hide the fact that something terrible had happened. Harry felt a flash of irritation. If he was old enough to support his family, then he was old enough to know the truth about the break-in. But before he had the chance to release the cutting words forming in his throat, Harry caught a glance of his father’s weary face and softened. “Not great,” he admitted. “I bungled the last trick, and Thaddeus refused to pay me.” When his father didn’t respond, Harry continued. “If I make another mistake, I’m out forever,” he said flatly, feeling his last tendril of hope shriveling as he admitted it.

  His father just looked at the floor. Harry knew he was disappointed, but too kind to say anything while the wound was still fresh.

  “Harry, why do you keep doing this to yourself?” his mother asked from the doorway. “You’ll drive yourself mad trying to make a living from magic. Don’t you want a steady income? Or the ability to support a family?”

  Harry clenched and unclenched his fists.

  “Someone breaks into our house, shatters our valuables, and carves our wall . . . and you want to talk about my job prospects?” he retorted.

  “Your mother and I will handle it,” his father said quietly. “An old acquaintance just wanted to send me . . . a message. I’ll make him see reason and we’ll work something out.”